At the risk of sounding like a halfwit, I write because of the words.
I’ve been extremely fond of words since I first met them. My tūpuna passed an oral history. One where visuals and vocals blend to help you understand why we came to be.

The influence of words fascinates me. How they can wield power over humans, the same humans who tend to believe in the tangible and not in the in.

I am the continuum of a people who believed in the “intangible”. Storytelling, fundamental.
Fatalistic, yes.
Sounding hopeful and, sometimes, naive could be my thing. I’m ok with it.

Words are an escape, true. They are also a meditation. A therapist. A dictator. A teacher. Constraining at times. An asshole, to be sure.

Rather than “saving” me, words have held my hand. They have been my serendipitous mirror. Reflecting my circumstances, showing me, me. Throwing back the nuances of my feelings, therefore, ultimately, a path to reconciliation.
Maybe they have saved me.

In Maori culture, it is customary to recite your pepeha to introduce yourself formally. Words, acknowledging where and who you have come.

Due to colonisation, this space will be held for the day I learn my native tongue.